


Pleasantries

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: 16th Century CE, Bad Flirting, Fade to Black, First Dates, First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Count Paris returns to Verona and finds everything tiresomely unchanged—with the exception of one intriguingly grown-up Tybalt Capulet.</p><p>Pre-canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasantries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Hello, lovely recip! I was really excited about your letter and had all kinds of ambitious plans to attempt something with an actual plot, and then life kicked me down hard. But I appreciated the encouragement to write a pairing I've been thinking about for a while, and I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Thanks to drcalvin for handholding and useful suggestions.

Perhaps Paris had been foolish to expect Verona to change in his absence, as if overnight it might blossom out of the muck of its ridiculous feuds into a glorious flower like Rome or Florence. But his uncle still raged impotently at the jumped-up merchants who held the city in thrall to their petty hatred, and his cousin Mercutio, well—

He eyed the other side of the tavern, where Mercutio had all but draped himself over some merchant puppy—comely enough for that type, but he looked to have no bite to him, and Paris dismissed him without a second thought. Mercutio’s laugh was still too loud, his wit too brittle, the flame of his hair drew too many eyes. Mercutio might fuck donkeys in private, for all Paris cared; that was between him and God. But to carry on so in public—it was a disgrace for a prince's nephew, a disgrace to the entire family.

No, expecting that Mercutio might have grown up a bit in his absence had _certainly_ been foolish.

Paris smiled absently at the girl who brought him another cup of wine; it was, after all, not her fault that his cousins were useless, and she was comely and clean enough for a quick tumble. 

"Tyyyyyyybalt," cried a too-familiar voice from across the room, drawing out the name with edged mockery that grated on Paris’ nerves. "Look you, Romeo, our little wildcat has emerged from his den to spit and snarl at the sun for hurting his eyes. Oh, do not hiss at me, Tybalt; you've too many teeth, and you'll frighten away the maid before she can refill my wine."

The newcomer who had roused Mercutio to such heights of repartee, though—ah, _he_ had changed, Paris thought as his pulse skipped a beat.

The Tybalt Capulet he remembered had been a sullen, sallow boy, awkward and clumsy, with a mouth too wide for his face. He'd been quiet, too, the few times Paris had seen him, shunning the boys his age to hang about one of the Capulet girls scarce out of leading-strings, an ugly little thing with bug-eyes like a frog.

For their part, the other boys hadn't liked Tybalt much, either, Paris recalled, or at least Mercutio hadn't. And anyone Mercutio didn’t like...

"Careful, Mercutio," Tybalt was saying in a low, rough voice, his shoulders tensing as he settled a hand on the hilt of his dagger, "if you keep bedding down with dogs, you'll get fleas."

Yes, Paris rather thought he would like Tybalt Capulet.

It did not hurt in the slightest that the awkward boy had grown into a _magnificent_ man: tall and slim in dark green doublet and hose, his hair pushed back from a high brow and strong-boned face, and just enough of a hint of barely-leashed danger to make him...interesting. Merchant still by blood, perhaps, but not by temperament, if Paris was any judge.

"You would know _all_ about that, wouldn't you," said Mercutio, sweet as poison. 

Between one breath and the next, Tybalt had drawn his dagger and slammed it point-first into the table a hair's-breadth from Mercutio's hand. "Take that back," he gritted.

The merchant lad seemed to wake up, eyes widening, an astonishingly disarming smile spreading over his face. The smile only deepened Tybalt's scowl. "Mercutio, please," he said, plucking at Mercutio's sleeve. "Let's go somewhere more pleasant; I don't want to fight with anyone. Tybalt, you know he doesn't mean anything by it."

"Oh," said Tybalt, plucking the dagger free with some effort and baring his teeth at the boy. "I think he means a great deal by it, but it signifies about as much as a Montague’s talk of peace."

Well, it wouldn’t do for this to end in bloodshed; so messy, and so inconvenient to hush up. And besides, it wouldn’t hurt to present himself to Tybalt as someone of...like mind. “Tybalt Capulet. It’s been a long time,” Paris said, slipping up to the table. He thought for a moment about putting a friendly arm around Tybalt’s shoulders, and decided against it in the interest of self-preservation: the lad was nearly vibrating with anger. Better not to touch him yet. “ _Dear_ cousin. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Mercutio’s face went quite blank. “Paris. Cousin. I didn’t realize you were back.”

“Ah, well, I’d rather be in Milan, of course, or Venice. Venice is a fine city—the view over the harbor at dawn rivals anything in the world, I’d wager; but I have business here, so needs must. I shan’t be staying long.” He smiled, his most worldly older-cousin smile, the one that had always made Mercutio punch him when they were boys.

“A pity,” said Mercutio, coldly.

“Perhaps if you asked nicely, Uncle might loan you some capital of your own. If you applied yourself, I’ve no doubt you would do well enough—”

“I shall consider it,” Mercutio spat as he stood, all but hauling the merchant lad with him. “Come along, Romeo, I’ve lost my taste for wine tonight. Shall we retire elsewhere?”

“For once my cousin speaks sense,” Paris murmured as Mercutio left, his friend trailing behind him. He turned to Tybalt, whose dark brows were drawn together; he was frowning faintly. “Please, you’ve no need for that—” He gestured at Tybalt’s dagger, and after a moment Tybalt relaxed his grip, although his shoulders remained tense, his posture wary as a stray cat who’d been kicked too many times. “Would you do me the honor of dining with me tonight? I assure you, my cousin won’t come within a stone’s-throw of my house, and my wine cellar is far better than this establishment can provide.”

If a sullen shrug was not exactly enthusiasm, it was at least a start.

* * *

Tybalt was not the sort of guest you invited if you wished for sparkling conversation at table, Paris soon realized. The poor lad had sat stiff as a board all through supper, answering questions about Verona with brevity and candor bordering on rudeness, watching the shadows as if he half-expected men with knives to materialize from behind the tapestries. He had not reacted visibly when Paris contrived to brush his hand while pouring wine, or to the occasional friendly touch to his shoulder in conversation—but he had not pulled away, either. That was promising. And if he was not full of pretty words, at least it was amusing to imagine unleashing him among the masked liars of Venetian society, to let him set them aflutter like a fox in a henhouse.

Paris finished filling Tybalt’s cup with the sweet Madeira wine he’d judged the strongest in his cellars and nudged the plate of fruit tarts a little closer. If anyone had ever needed relaxation, Tybalt did—and Paris judged himself just the man to provide it, one way or another. “I must apologize. My cousin has always been…” Paris paused to consider the best word.

“An ass?” 

“I was about to say ‘tactless.’”

Tybalt snorted and drained his cup too fast to taste it. “'Tactless' would imply that he doesn’t realize exactly what he’s saying.” A drop of wine clung at the corner of his mouth, but he brushed it away before Paris could be tempted to foolishness. Still, perhaps he stared a little longer than he should have at Tybalt's mouth, expressive in contempt. “I may not be a king of empty words, but I recognize a blade when it’s pointed at my heart. At any rate, Mercutio is not your responsibility.”

“Still,” said Paris, leaning forward a little and daring to rest his hand on Tybalt’s forearm for a moment, feeling the flex of lean muscle beneath his sleeve, “I would hate for you to think the entire house of Escalus full of buffoons.”

“I bear nothing but respect for the prince your uncle,” said Tybalt stiffly, giving no notice of Paris’s touch beyond a faint start, swiftly controlled.

“And for me?” Paris drew his hand back slowly, fingertips lingering for a moment at Tybalt’s wrist. An offer or the clumsiness of a host who had drunk too much of his own wine—the choice he left to Tybalt.

Tybalt’s gaze dropped for a moment to Paris’s hands, one eyebrow raised, and then his mouth twisted. “I mislike mockery, Count Paris. If there is something you want of me—more than servant’s gossip about your cousin—then say it.”

Well. Perhaps he had been less subtle than he thought, but Tybalt’s bluntness cast him off balance. “Call me Paris, please. I assure you that mockery is the last thing on my mind.” What could he say that would not be too crass, too near to giving offense? “But since you ask,” he began, and smiled—he had been told he had a charming smile. “I thought that perhaps you—we—”

He broke off, for Tybalt had stood and begun working at the buttons of his doublet, a touch clumsy with wine. He was frowning again, which was not at all what Paris had hoped for, and he slipped around the table and stilled Tybalt’s hands with his own before he could do more than expose a distracting glimpse of throat where his shirt collar fell open. “What are you doing?”

The stiffness returned to Tybalt’s shoulders as he glanced up, his frown deepening. “I thought you wanted to—” His fingers flexed, as if he meant to pull away, and Paris tightened his grasp without thinking.

“You misunderstand me,” he said, nudging Tybalt backwards, away from the table. “I do. It is only—” he brought one of Tybalt’s hands to his mouth and kissed his knuckles one by one, noting with pleasure the surprised intake of breath, “—that we have no reason to hurry, have we?”

“I have never seen much point in wasting time on pleasantries,” Tybalt muttered, but he went along easily as Paris pressed him back against the wall, his expression clearing--ah, there, his mouth did not look so forbidding. He parted his lips when Paris kissed him, answering with more sweetness than he had expected, although his hands were none so gentle, a delicious hint of the strength hiding under silken doublet and hose.

“Then you've been doing them wrong,” said Paris, a little more breathlessly than was good for his pride.

Tybalt grinned, knife-sharp as the smile he’d given Mercutio in the tavern. He twisted his hand into the front of Paris’ doublet, pulling him closer and working his other hand into his hose, pressing his palm roughly against his hardening prick. “Convince me.”

Perhaps, Paris thought as they stumbled towards the bedroom, it had been worth returning to Verona after all.


End file.
